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Life goes on, and yet my mind always circles back to the Werth family.
I can’t help but think about T.J.’s parents and what losing their son must have done to them.
Every time I’ve been at the hospital I’ve done everything I can to learn if he was my donor, but the medical staff is tight lipped, as they should be. All I have to go on is the information they gave me when they called, what was in the newspaper, and my own gut feeling.
My days become obsessive as I spend my whole time thinking about meeting them—for thanking them for their selfless sacrifice to donate their son’s organs. I want them to know, to feel relief in their heart, that their son’s death managed to bring good to the world.
I pace my room, back and forth. It’s a miracle I haven’t worn a hole through the floor and fallen straight down into the room below.
I’ve been warring with myself, and I know I’m about to lose the fight.
Finally, I dive for my desk chair and sit down, lifting my laptop lid.
With a few quick strokes of the keyboard I find the address for Diane and Peter Werth. It’s almost scary how easy it is to find someone if you know their name and the relative location of where they live.
I save the address to my phone and look down at it.
“Are you going to do this?” I ask myself softly.nbsp;
Yes. Yes, I am.
I have to. There’s this innate need inside me to meet them and I know it won’t go away until I do.
This feels crazy, and it is, but I have to do it.
I change into a pair of jean shorts and an off-the-shoulder top. My hair is a wavy mess, I try my best to make it look decent. I even take time to apply a little makeup. I don’t want to show up at their house looking like I rolled out of bed and threw on some shoes.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Wild blonde hair that refuses to be tamed. Freckles dotted across my nose like sprinkles on ice cream. Hazel eyes swaying golden today. Now, post transplant, there’s a slight pink hue in my cheeks that wasn’t there before.nbsp;
It’s the same face that’s stared back at me for seventeen years.nbsp;
But my eyes?
That’s where I see the biggest difference.nbsp;
My eyes aren’t those of a peppy teen, living life to the fullest.
They’re the eyes of someone who’s lived through more than anyone ever should.nbsp;
I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat and remind myself I can finally say that all the things that put that look in my eyes are now in the past.
Now’s my chance to get my spark back.
I turn the light off in the bathroom and grab my purse.nbsp;
The house is empty—my parents are at work and Harlow met some of her friends from school at the local pool.
I pad down the stairs, my purse slapping against my leg.
Downstairs, Perry sits by his water bowl, begging for more. I quickly fill it and escape while he’s lapping at it.
I haven’t been cleared to drive yet, but I know their address is in a neighborhood not far from this one, only two miles, and the walk will do me some good.
It’s warm but breezy, perfect beach weather. I love that it never gets sweltering hot here, the ocean breeze always keeps the air feeling fresh.
All around me are signs of summer.nbsp;
